


A little tenderness

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hair care, Kissing, Love Confessions, Quest of Erebor, Thorin is a Softie, Thorin is a great kisser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: Thorin helping with tangled hair leads to confessions of love in Laketown.





	

The somber silence that falls over the little house, so strange after the tumultuous events of the day, reflects the weariness and the ill fortune of the company, and you sink into a chair beside the woodstove to wait for nightfall.

Bard, your unwilling host, stands with his son at a window, watching the sun crawl toward its setting and listening with a keen ear for any sign of the Master’s spies or – worse still – the city guard. His daughters have retreated to a corner where the younger girl observes the dwarves with avid curiosity in her wide eyes and her elder sister attempts to distract her with needlework.

The dwarves themselves have settled in as comfortably as they can given the cramped space, finding seats on every available chair, bench, and step, and now only the occasional low murmur of talk passes between them while they, too, watch and wait. 

Only Thorin still stands, his arms crossed and his brow heavy, his body radiating the restless energy of a caged animal. When his eyes chance to meet yours, the anger and frustration simmering in their depths seem to bore into you, and feeling yourself an intruder upon his thoughts, you quickly look away…too quickly to see his expression turn regretful.

You little know how often his thoughts turn to you in quiet moments or the part you play in his dreams of a successful quest, of peaceful times when he might show you the softness he can now little afford, and he can only wish back the careless glare while he watches you staring pensively out of the mullioned window and fidgeting with your hair.

The leather thongs that secure your braids are still damp from the river and hopelessly tangled by your hurried habit of tying new knots on top of the old ones, only becoming tighter as you work at them in growing frustration. Unexpectedly, a hand rests lightly on your shoulder, and the lush baritone that always sparks pleasant flutters in your stomach is close behind you.

“Allow me?”

Thorin’s expression is unreadable, but the smallest of smiles warms his face and you tentatively return it. 

“Thank you.”

You turn to face away from him again, feeling the warmth of his body as he moves close to take your hair into his hands. His fingers, though sturdy and thick, deftly manage the knots in one thong, then the other, and setting them aside, he begins to gently unravel the tousled strands, carding through firmly enough to tease out snarls yet always careful of hurting you. As he works his way upward from the ends of your braids, he delves more deeply, soothingly stroking your scalp with his fingertips before drawing his hands outward, sifting through the waves left behind by the braids.

The gentleness of Thorin’s hands, his slow, thorough movements, and the keenness of his attention to your comfort make the act feel somehow intimate, and even as you enjoy his ministrations, you hazard a bashful glance around the room at your other companions. Only the occasional flicker of Dwalin’s stony gaze in your direction and the mild lift of Balin’s eyebrows indicate that anyone has noticed Thorin’s gesture.

A soft sound catches your attention, and you turn to find Bard’s younger daughter at your elbow, her smile shy.

“You’ve such pretty hair,” she ventures. “Would…would you like me to plait it for you again?”

She clutches a hairbrush in her hand, and there is a timid friendliness in her eyes that only the heartless might resist.

“That would be most kind of you…Tilda, isn’t it?” you nod, returning her smile warmly. 

Thorin is almost comical in his deference to the child, moving away to ask after an ailing Kili so quickly that you scarcely have time to murmur another thanks for his help, and as Tilda begins to weave your hair into a tidy, low braid much like her sister’s, her work loosening her tongue, you turn your attention to her conversation. 

Across the room, Thorin returns to brooding, the labor of his active mind written plainly on his face, and this time he wills himself to think on his quest, his duty, instead of the softness of your hair beneath his fingers.

* * *

The following evening, the company are giddy with the Master of Laketown’s offer of lodgings and provisions and with the abundance of ale at the welcoming feast he provides. Bofur is leading the rest of the dwarves in the second verse of a bawdy drinking song when you slip out to a small balcony, wrapping your new woolen shawl more tightly against the chill air laced with snowflakes that drift down over the town.

Footsteps on the creaking floorboards catch your ear, and you acknowledge Thorin’s arrival with a smile when he stands at your side, looking out at the frosty night.

“Are you well?” he asks.

“Quite. I just fancied a breath of fresh air.”

“And a moment of peace, no doubt,” he adds, with a twinkle of dry humor in his eyes.

“A little quiet wouldn’t go amiss,” you admit, chuckling, and he nods ruefully.

“You have the patience of Ilúvatar himself to live in close quarters with this company these many months.”

“Living among dwarves has been the least of my hardships,” you say truthfully.

You grow quiet, studying the rings on his hands as you gather your courage to speak of what’s been on your mind since an enlightening conversation earlier in the day.

“Talking of dwarves,” you say at last, lightly, “I’m told an honor was bestowed upon me yesterday that I did not fully appreciate.”

Thorin frowns, looking wary. “How so?”

“Well, I had it from Balin that a dwarf does not commonly tend to the hair of a woman he’s not courting.”

His expression becomes sheepish, guarded, and he looks away toward the moonlight shimmering on the lake before answering.

“You seemed to be in need of help…and…” He pauses, stubbornly fixing his gaze on the horizon. “I hoped that my touch might not be unwelcome to you.”

“Not at all,” you say shyly, drawing his eyes to meet yours at last. “I meant only to thank you for making an exception for me.”

He studies your face for a moment. Whatever he sees there causes his demeanor to soften, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in his wry, lopsided smile.

“I must plead a moment of weakness, allowing myself the pleasure.”

“I would call it strength,” you muse, “to show tenderness to another when so little has been shown to you.”

Thorin looks at you more searchingly yet, reaching to smooth your hair away from your face with a slow, lingering stroke.

“You think me worthy of tenderness,” he murmurs, to himself as much as to you.

“Of course.” Your heart flutters in your chest like a winged creature with the full intensity of his gaze trained upon you while he skims his hand over your hair one more time, and a small, giddy smile is impossible to resist with the quickening of your pulse. “You’re touching my hair again, Thorin.”

“So I am,” he rumbles, his voice going deeper, richer, heavy with intent. “Shall I stop?”

The hopefulness in his tone nearly steals your breath. 

“Never.”

He smiles, more genuinely this time, and his hands move to frame your face. His palms and fingers are roughened by weather and work and the sword’s hilt, yet his touch is delicate when his thumb traces the curve of your lower lip, and you remember that these hands have crafted gems and precious metals into fine ornaments and coaxed beautiful music from the strings of a harp.

Thorin is dazzlingly beautiful in the cool, silvery light of the moon, standing so close that you smell lingering pipe smoke and, faintly, the herbal spiciness of the sage-scented soap on offer in the Master’s bathing room. You venture to stroke the hollow at the base of his throat with your fingertips as his hands slowly, deliberately traverse your neck, your shoulder blades, coming to rest on the small of your back to draw you into his embrace, laying his cheek against your own as you drape your arms around his neck and bury your fingers in his thick hair as you’ve longed to do since the day you first saw him.

A thrill courses like lightning through your body when he presses a kiss to your jawline, just below your ear, and lightly drags the coarse softness of his beard across the plane of your cheek until his lips meet yours in a hesitant caress. 

He makes to retreat, as though to seek approval, permission, but your hands cradle his head and your lips greedily chase his, and he sighs – in delight? relief? – and presses you closer, returning to you with a hungry, thorough kiss. 

Thorin’s mouth is sweet with wine, his lips at once possessive and generous, his whiskers pleasantly abrasive on your skin. The sensual flick of his tongue against yours makes your head swim more than the strongest ale and you know even now that no one else will ever kiss you like this, with both a lover’s tenderness and a King’s command.

Breathless, you both break the kiss, and Thorin gathers you to his chest, where the heavy thudding of his heart reaches you through the coarsely woven coat he wears. He trails his fingers through your hair, over your back, all the while murmuring softly in his own tongue interwoven with the common speech.

_Amrâlimê_. Dearest one. _Ghivâshel_.

“Thorin,” you say soothingly, your heart swelling with a joy almost beyond bearing as he repeats the words like a grateful incantation.

“Beloved… _Amrâlimê_.”

“I love you,” you caress his cheek, press a fervent kiss to his neck and delight in the hitch in his breath. “Oh, I love you.”

His eyes blaze with emotion as they gaze into yours, his lips tremble with the volumes of words that crowd into his mind now that you stand in his embrace, willing, loving, close to his heart as though his arms were created to hold you. He simply smiles, so pure and open in his happiness that it hurts, and presses a kiss to your forehead, welcoming you when you burrow beneath his coat to splay your cold hands across the warm, corded muscle of his broad back.

The night grows colder, but you and Thorin only press closer to each other, the merriment inside the house holding no charm while you warm cold cheeks and lips with kisses, whisper sweet nothings and heartfelt promises, and forget for a time the perils that lie ahead, content to stay forever in this moment if only time would allow it.


End file.
